I decided, after that last dose of bathos, that it would be more interesting to write about the UFOs than to whine about how I can't get it up to write about the UFOs (pronounced "OO-foes", as in "OO-foes over OO-suh").

So: 

My UFO Story

At the risk of seeming even more cracked than I already do (to the disilluminate), I must confess to having seen UFOs as a child.  Another child was with me at the time, so hallucination is at least improbable.  No rectal probes were involved.  In fact, the whole thing was rather more like a slightly-disappointing over-hyped display at an aeronautics museum than anything else.

It was daytime - noonish, or afternoon - quite bright and clear - Summer, I think, and my friend and I must have been about eleven and twelve, respectively.  We were playing (or agonizing, or something) in his parents' backyard.  This backyard faced some foothills to the north, probably not more than 2000 feet tall - and we can't have been more than 1000 feet up ourselves.  Over those foothills, moving from the north-west, toward the south-east, came two objects.  These were silent, so far as we could tell, and moved at a uniform, slow pace in perfect parallel, lined up cleanly with each other in all visible dimensions.  They were identical - two isosceles triangles with the narrow angle perhaps 30 degrees, a light orange, each with a single, deep reddish-orange chevron at about the middle, with its point aligned with the pointed front of the, um, well, the UFO.

These things were relatively low in the sky (hence the detailed description), more or less at a helicopter or glider elevation.   They moved, at the same slow, even pace, across the entre stretch of visible sky, and that was, I am afraid, it.

But - I did see them. 

What were they?  Growing up in a military town, one does betimes see odd stuff in the sky, but these were quite  odd.  Experimental aircraft?  Perhaps some high-tech hobbyist's take on a completely enclosed ultralight?  Art?  Hoax?  Hologams?  Bug-Eyed Monsters from Planet X?  Fuckifiknow.  But I do know this: 

Weird things do happen, and without explanation.

It's been a while since I've been able to write anything here.

The reasons are obscure to me, though I have many plausible excuses, some of which may be partially true.  I think that it may be, simply, that I have to be someone in order to write something, and right now I feel a bit depersonalized - not feeling myself - not feeling much of anything. 

I should  be ranting about recent allegations - entirely plausible - that the Bush administration threatened Pakistan with bombing in order to coerce them into aligning with "us" after 9/11.  (I really came here in the first place to rant.)  I should be writing about the curious stories lurking in the branches of my family tree.  And there are always the UFOs to fall back on...

I have endless topics, really...

But I'm not quite here, right now.

So, where am I?

I have a new entry as a guest contributor on Xaos' estimable 'blog, which all sensible people should be reading regularly.

My contribution is a tender reminiscence upon the late Steve Irwin, entitled What the Fuck Is Wrong With Australians?, and I believe it is Most Edifying.

I think I may have finally found someone more bitter than myself (other than my beloved, I mean).

He (?) is located at: 

Letters to Kalki, and appears to have a Himalayan attitude problem.

Most of the time, you can safely ignore any sentence that begins with "I", and any clause that begins with "but".

I'm appalled at how many epiphanies, renewals, fresh starts, vows, awakenings, etc., I have gone through - some of them even real, and possibly sincere - only to retreat back, again and again, to the same gray and hollow shell:  spent ammunition.

I recall a much-beloved and wise friend of mine once asking:  "Do you ever have epiphanies?" 

I replied: "Yes, sometimes, I suppose I do."

His response:  "Well, maybe you should stop."

Don't even get me started.

Here's a tale of abuila - and of a generation consumed by it ... by which I mean:  mine.

You show me yours, and I'll show you mine, okay?  Or maybe, I'll show you yours, too.

My generation were not apathetic.  As it says in the film Slacker:  "Withdrawing in disgust is not the same as apathy."   I think we were fairly perceptive in our day, and rather liberated in thought and behavior, as such things go.  I find people younger than myself rather narrow in many ways - we were often accused of being "Reagan Youth", or at least of harboring a few of same among our ranks, but the young now appear much moreso - no values but unenlightened self-interest, etc.  Everyone curses, has any sort of sex that they are inclined to, and all the inebriants they can afford; but no thought is ever out of place.  Everyone's such a "rebel" that they're all exactly alike, and ultimately, profoundly reactionary.

Probably one out of six people I went to high school or college with would have self-identified as anarchists, communists, social democrats, deep ecologists, atheists, neopagans, vegetarians, or, perhaps, fascists.  They at least might sympathize with some of these or with allied tendencies like the punk movement.  The point is - people dared to be what they were not supposed to be.  But, to be candid, we didn't do much.  We threw some great parties, and made a lot of art, even propaganda, and we spread among ourselves some wonderfully radical speculations and hypotheses, and some sublime pipe dreams (in every sense).  We made some decent music here and there.  And we printed up thousands, perhaps millions, of 'zines (a/k/a "what people did before there were 'blogs") - but, we didn't actually accomplish much. 

Some would say it was because we were too high to get off the couch, but really, it was more of a failure of will than anything else.  We had grown up under Reagan and Bush, which would break anyone's spirit.   And, though we did, at first, throw a million protests - many of them quite large, innovative, and even militant - these ultimately began to strike us as futile.  At some point, we noticed that only we read our 'zines, which we already agreed with.  We converted no-one, and really, no-one cares about art except "art world" scenesters, and they don't matter at all.  Protests don't change public policy unless they get very violent, or disrupt the normal functioning of government and business.  This was starting to happen with the wave of increasingly ambitious "anti-globalization" protests, but then 9/11 happened, and everyone chickened out, or went into shock, or something....  maybe they were all shipped off to Gitmo?  And then - nothing. 

And today's nothing has been brought to you by ... the generation that meant well, but did very little about it.

(But we did do it in style.)

Imagine that everytime you looked at someone, you would see their mind rather than their body.  That is, you would not see their actual physical appearance, but a visible metaphor for their state of mind.  That crabbed expression - a soul caught in one of the Hell worlds.  That dull, glazed-over look about the eyes - a mind gone dim from fleeing from understanding.  That hostile, tough-guy demeanor - fear re-written as agression.  That sneer - feelings of inferiority disguised as feelings of superiority. 

And so on.

How could you bear to live?

(This is a sequel to my earlier post concerning games, q.v.)

A few additional things games have tried to teach me:

1. Do not underestimate your opponent or your ally.
   "Trust your partner" is an axiom of bridge, and those who neglect it reliably do poorly in that august sport.  In life too, if one condescends to one's allies (actual or potential), one loses.  And one loses both in games and in life by playing on the assumption of the inferiority of others.
2. Play your best game.
   This is not so much in order to win as it is in order to show respect for those with whom one plays.  This implies concentrating, and mustering one's full talent, but it also implies not being overly conventional or predictable, even at the risk of losing.   Playing a boring game wastes their time and yours.  The word of Nietzsche:   "Live dangerously."   In other words:   Play the game in earnest.   Step out a bit, for, in the words of the Sex Pistols:   "You don't do what you want and you fade away."
3. Resignation is honorable.
   This is (I believe) an old chess proverb, but it applies everywhere.   Knowing when to stop avoids wasting your time, and your opponents', and allows you to move on to the next, presumably better game, or a new stage of the same game.   Our moving to the Devil's Litterbox, b/k/a the San Joaquin Valley, was informed by this sort of consideration.   In the literature, philosophical and economic, on decision theory, a lively debate has emerged on the issue of calculating on sunk costs.  
   So far as I can tell, the smart money says to stop throwing money in the well after it clearly establishes its disinclination to grant your wishes.   Some disagree with this, of course...